


Adventures with a Tall Man

by dragonspell, MoragMacPherson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoragMacPherson/pseuds/MoragMacPherson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Locked in the basement of St. Bart's to guard Sam Winchester while Dean tries to track down his "soul," Sherlock does more than merely observe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adventures with a Tall Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sistabro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistabro/gifts).



> Ten thousand words and I swear to you, it remains a PWP based on Sistabro's evil question about what would happen if I locked these two sociopaths in a room together. I can't give enough thanks to Callowyn for all of her work beta-ing this fic, and all of my apologies to my co-author, Dragonspell, and to Sistabro for being patient while we kept messing around with it. 
> 
> Title is from an incomplete Holmes story by Doyle, "The Adventure of the Tall Man." Takes place sometime during or shortly after _A Scandal in Belgravia_ , and diverges from Supernatural canon when Death didn't return Sam's soul at the end of _Appointment in Samarra_.

 

Soul-less Sam _: Now look at you: same misty-eyed milk-sop you always were. That's because souls are weak. They're a liability. (The Man Who Knew Too Much)_  
  
Sherlock _: I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof. (A Scandal in Belgravia)_

  
____  
  
Sherlock approached the door to the small basement room of St. Bartholomew's hospital where Sam Winchester had been locked up for the past three days. Dean had only left the previous afternoon, after forty-eight hours of paranoid observation, when Sherlock and John finally agreed to watch Sam while Dean attempted to locate his so-called 'soul'. He had barely begun unlocking the door when it swung open and John walked out of it.  
  
John handed Sherlock his SIG Sauer with one hand while he covered a yawn with the other. "Has he slept yet?" Sherlock asked, tucking the gun in the pocket of his coat.  
  
"No," said John, looking back at the door.  
  
"Are you certain? Not even an episode of microsleep?" Sherlock noted the bags under John's eyes. "Did _you_ sleep?"  
  
John scowled at Sherlock. 'Yes, no, and no. I suggest picking up a book before you go in. Something long. _Infinite Jest_ , perhaps?"  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Absolutely not."  
  
John shrugged. "Your choices are watching him exercise, trying to wrestle the remote control away from him, or talking to him. I don't recommend any of the above."  
  
"I'm certain I'll find some way of entertaining myself," said Sherlock, brushing past John.  
  
"It's your twelve hours," said John, resigned.  
  
"Don't worry so much. And get some sleep, John. You look terrible."  
  
John gave Sherlock a weak smile. "Be careful, Sherlock. And for the love of God, don't underestimate him."  
  
"I won't," said Sherlock, and walked into the room.  
  
Sam was indeed exercising, doing shirtless pull-ups on a support beam. If Sherlock's genius had inclined him towards sketching, the movements and musculature of Sam's back would have made for a fine anatomical study. Behind him he heard John lock the deadbolts.  
  
But Sherlock had very little interest in either sketching or Sam's form, nor at Sam's flashy attempts to assert his physical dominance. Sam was strong, no one could question that; on the other hand, Sherlock had a gun and was willing to use it. "You’re favoring your left slightly," Sherlock said, walking towards the sofa but not sitting down.  
  
Sam grunted, pulling himself up ten more times before dropping to the ground and turning to face Sherlock. "Did you bring any food?"  
  
"Molly should be round in an hour or two with breakfast. Do be pleasant to her when she arrives."  
  
Sam tilted his head to the side, looking down at Sherlock, only a foot or so away from him now. "Molly is the one who feeds me, not one of the people holding me at gunpoint." Sam's arm moved and Sherlock found himself tensing reflexively, tightening his grip on the pistol. But all Sam did was reach up over the rafter and pull down the remote control from where neither John nor Sherlock would be able to reach. "It's not her fault she's feeding me English food," he added, flopping down on the sofa, still shirtless.  
  
Sherlock ignored the jibe; every conceivable form of insult to English cuisine had already been made, most of them more clever than Sam's. He sat down at the table and watched Sam watch telly. Sam flipped through the channels three or four times until he settled on a rerun of _Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman_. "Resorting to passive aggression so soon?" Sherlock said.  
  
"You’ll only shoot me if I make you." Sam leaned up on his elbows to smirk. "That’s why Dean was willing to fly the Atlantic to leave me with you two."  
  
"I had assumed it was because we're by far the most competent of any of your acquaintances and I owed Bobby Singer a favor."  
  
"The fact remains that this room is boring and I will take my simple pleasures as I can find them." Onscreen, Dr. Quinn made three completely illogical deductions and more anachronistic remarks than Sherlock was willing to count. Sam watched in apparent fascination, unnaturally still, then said, "Toss me my shirt. It's on the other chair."  
  
Sherlock pursed his lips. It wouldn’t do to establish a pattern of catering to Sam’s whims, but it was a simple enough request. He reached over to the chair and picked up the plaid button-down, noting the open pack of cigarettes in the front pocket. "You don't smoke," Sherlock said as he handed the shirt to Sam.  
  
"No, I don't," said Sam.  
  
"So it never occurred to John to look for them."  
  
"Nope." Sam offered up the cigarettes. "Didn't know your brand, but there's a pack of safety matches stuck down the front."  
  
Sherlock sniffed with disdain but caught a whiff of tobacco. "You'd have me smoke in a hospital?"  
  
"Re-purposed custodial lounge in the basement of a hospital." Sam smirked. "I won't tell."  
  
There wasn't a smoke detector in this room, and the security door had a tight rubber seal. While there wasn't a heating duct intake grate in here, there were a pair of small semi-circular barred windows—far too small for Sam to crawl through, of course—which vented open over the unused cot in the far corner.  
  
Sam laughed. "If you're trying to figure out how this leads to my sudden but inevitable betrayal, don’t bother. You're just slightly less obnoxious after you've had a smoke." Sam laid back down, apparently forgetting to put his shirt on. "Call it a survival strategy."  
  
Sam had already unsealed the pack to include the plain white book of matches. Sherlock lifted a cigarette up to his nose and smelled more deliberately. He knew several methods and compounds— "Seriously, Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock glared at him. "Take it as a compliment. I don't accuse most people of being this clever."  
  
Sam hopped up off of the couch—he really was quite nimble for a man of his size—and strode over to the window. "Fine. I’ll have one too."  
  
Sherlock flipped the pack of cigarettes in one hand. "We’ve established that you don't smoke, and you don’t seem concerned with ingratiating yourself to me; why bother?"  
  
"Because I can," Sam said.  
  
After a moment, Sherlock walked to the window and handed Sam the cigarette he'd already taken out. Sam set it between his lips and leaned over, keeping his eyes on Sherlock while he struck a match and lit it. Sam took an exaggerated pull and wagged his eyebrows at Sherlock while he held the smoke in his lungs two, three, four, five seconds before he exhaled slowly out the window, making an 'o' of his lips.  
  
"Satisfied?" Sam asked.  
  
"Rarely," Sherlock replied sharply, lighting a cigarette for himself. After the first drag he sighed. "But at least you're not boring."  
  
Sam peered out the window, though the view consisted mostly of pavement. "That seems to be the consensus," he said. "Sammy wished he had been."  
  
Sammy. As though his past self, Dean’s brother, was a completely foreign entity. Because he had a soul. Why would someone as rational as Sam form that distinction?  
  
They smoked together in silence for several minutes, then Sam pinned him with another stare. "You don't believe in souls." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
"You talk about a number of things I don't believe in," said Sherlock, watching his smoke rings spread into halos around Sam's head. "Heaven, hell, apocalypses; if they exist I have as much effect on them as I do on the solar system. Regardless of my beliefs, I certainly don't _care._ "  
  
Sam ashed on the sill. "So why are you and John so willing to go along with Dean, keeping me locked up?"  
  
"Because the last time Dean was terrified _of_ you rather than _for_ you, you apparently let Lucifer out of Hell. Or at least, some distinctly unnatural disasters swept the globe for the next year. There's some precedent for being concerned." Most people would offer an explanation; Sam merely shrugged. Sherlock took a slow drag. Then he said, "Because people don't change. They adapt, they compromise, but they never, ever change. Yet the surveillance tapes of you kidnapping a woman and allowing her to be killed while you used her as bait are rather compelling evidence that, soul or not, something fundamental about you has been altered since we last saw each other." Sherlock met Sam's gaze, which looked just the same as he remembered. "And that _is_ interesting."  
  
They stubbed out their cigarettes and threw the ends in the bin. Sam returned to his place on the sofa and watched the rest of the episode while Sherlock struggled to keep his frustrations with the plot to himself. After the credits rolled, Sam turned off the telly then stood, stretched, and replaced the remote control in the beams.  
  
"I don’t suppose you’re going to sleep," Sherlock said.  
  
"Nope," said Sam, walking over to take the seat across from Sherlock at the table. "When's Molly going to get here with the food?"  
  
Sherlock checked his mobile. "We've at least another forty-five minutes. She's severely underestimated the traffic for a Thursday morning commute. She sends her apologies."  
  
"None required," said Sam, shrugging. He held his shoulders up then tipped his head down, sniffing himself. Sam wrinkled his nose and scowled before glancing towards the bathroom. He pursed his lips and turned back to Sherlock. "Want to fuck?"  
  
Sherlock blinked. "Come again?"  
  
Sam laid his hands flat on the table. "I'm horny and locked up alone with you. We've got time. And if you want to fuck, then I want to do it before I take a shower."  
  
Sherlock resisted the urge to lean backwards. He started to wet his lips but stopped himself, not wanting to give Sam any ideas. "And what could have led you to believe I might... 'want to fuck’?"  
  
"Do you like orgasms?"  
  
"If you need to have a wank in the shower—"  
  
"I know _I_ like orgasms." Sam leaned in almost imperceptibly. "But what about you, Sherlock? How deep does that cold exterior go?"  
  
Sherlock kept his tone as level as Sam's. "I don't feel the need to go out—"  
  
"You don't have to go out and do anything, Sherlock. Your body reacts to stimulus even without emotional attraction, isn’t that true?" Sam could have been asking Sherlock about varieties of tobacco ash. His eyes were clear, pupils small in the harsh fluorescent lights, and his smile was thin but benign. He never had put his shirt back on. "You don't even have to look at me if you don't want to."  
  
Sherlock was beginning to understand why John had warned him against conversation with Sam. "The fact that you could overpower me physically has nothing to do with your suggestion, I suppose, and nor would you be looking for a reason to distract me because you just ‘like orgasms,’ right, Sam?" He pulled the SIG Sauer out of his pocket, clutching the grip.  
  
Sam turned his hands over, exposing his wrists, turning them into fists, and pressing them together. The motions flexed a variety of muscles all the way up to his pectorals, every movement plainly visible under his flesh. "You could tie me up."  
  
Quicker than Sherlock anticipated, one of Sam's hands darted forward to rub a tassel on Sherlock's scarf between his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock lept to his feet, pushing the chair back with a squeal. He raised the gun and pointed it at Sam's head, finger on the trigger. "Don't."  
  
Sam drew his hands back. "I was just going to point out that you wear a _very_ long scarf." Sherlock felt Sam's gaze go up and down, evaluating Sherlock in some foreign way. "You seem like you know your way around knots. Wrist to elbow, would that satisfy your paranoia?"  
  
"Entirely justifiable precaution," Sherlock corrected. "And it would be simpler just to tie your hands behind your back. With legs like yours, you'd have to dislocate at least one shoulder to bring your hands back around."  
  
Sam grinned. "By all means, keep planning how you want me."  
  
Sherlock refused to let Sam see the way he was cursing himself, but Sam didn’t seem to need the encouragement. "Top or bottom, Sherlock: which one are you more curious about?" He lowered his hands again and pressed them down onto the table, sliding them forward and rising slowly to his feet while keeping his head down low so that his spine bowed and his arse stuck up in the air. His gaze never left Sherlock’s. "I'm flexible."  
  
"Both are equally ridiculous," Sherlock snapped.  
  
Sam just hummed, looking him over again. "You said 'wank in the shower' pretty quick, so you've done that at least once. Did you like it?"  
  
Sherlock didn't flinch. "Self-exploration is a normal aspect of puberty."  
  
"No, you've done it more recently than that." Sam started to mimic Sherlock's speech; it wasn't a flattering portrayal. "But involving someone else, that's going down into the muck where all the little ordinary people play. Not even a rubber glove. Self-diagnosis is much easier. Sherlock Holmes doesn't need a doctor, not even our dear Watson." Sam narrowed his eyes. "Or at least that’s what you tell yourself, isn’t it?"  
  
Before Sherlock really knew what he was doing he had stepped around the table and had the muzzle of the pistol pressed against Sam's forehead. "Don’t talk about things you don’t understand."  
  
Sam's eyes ducked down and his spine lowered and tensed. "I live with Dean Winchester. I understand enough.” Sherlock stood there and felt an intention tremor run through his arm, making the machinery of the gun rattle ever so lightly; Sam didn't move another muscle, not until Sherlock managed to contain himself and pull the gun away. "Offer's still open," Sam whispered.  
  
Sherlock looked at him, all two meters of coiled muscles in a position of utter and complete subservience, at the mercy of Sherlock's willingness to pull the trigger. Sherlock swallowed around a phantom lump in his throat. "I think I'd prefer that you take that shower now," he said.  
  
When Sam moved, he moved slowly, his shoulders slouched unassumingly the way they used to be nearly all of the time; he kept his face pointed down at his feet. Sherlock still made sure to keep at least five feet between them the whole time. When he heard the rings on the metal curtain rod shriek as the water turned on, he collapsed into the chair he'd abandoned. He took a closer look at the gun in his hand, then decocked the hammer; he didn't remember exactly when he'd cocked it. He was not tempted to peek into the doorless bathroom while Sam showered.  
  
A minute or so after the water shut off, Molly knocked at the door, warning Sherlock before she unlocked the external deadbolts and opened it. "Sorry," she chirped. "Coming from Brixton, I really need to find a closer flat, but rents these days, well, you know." Molly set the plastic bags down on the table then stopped, taking a long look at Sherlock. "Are you all right?" Her eyes widened and she turned about. "Has he done something? Where is he?"  
  
"Here," said Sam. Sherlock refused to look up at him—that was, before he noticed that Molly was having some difficulty looking away.  
  
They were using cheap hospital linens, but Sherlock doubted any standard towel would do a better job; it looked more like a washcloth wrapped tight around Sam's waist, held in place by a hand on his hip. Besides the wide gap around his left thigh, it didn't even reach his knees. Above the towel, Sam looked like he was posed for the cover of some cheap romance paperback, like the ones Molly kept tucked in the bottom of her purse to read on the Tube. Even Sam's ridiculous hair was somewhat tamed by the water, which clung to his body and—  
  
"Is it too much to expect a shred of bloody decency around here," Sherlock snapped. Sam raised one eyebrow and sauntered to his duffel, leaning over to fish out fresh jeans and a t-shirt before he ducked back inside the doorless cubby of the bathroom.  
  
Sherlock turned to Molly, whose cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated, and whose breathing had gone very still before it returned much faster. All over such a patently absurd display. He stood and took a tiny step into her peripheral vision so that she would turn her focus on him. "If he didn't lose his soul, he at least lost any sense of propriety," Sherlock said.  
  
"Yes, so it seems." Molly smiled at Sherlock, then laughed, and it sounded nervous. She only started acting herself again when she began unpacking the bags. "Egg sandwiches for breakfast, pretty plain I'm afraid, but I found you some lovely curries for lunch. If you'd like I can come down and heat those up later, maybe join you?"  
  
Sherlock realized he was still holding the gun like he might draw at any moment. He laid it on the table and gave Molly a thin smile. "That won't be necessary. I've had worse than lukewarm curry in my time." In this case, _worse_ included exposing Molly Hooper to this version of Sam Winchester any more than was absolutely necessary.  
  
"It smells great," lied Sam, now in jeans and a t-shirt but still barefoot, using the inadequate towel to dry his hair. "Thanks, Molly," he said with a full smile, complete with dimples and dazzling white teeth. The Winchesters had always been obsessive about their oral hygiene.  
  
Sherlock could knock out one or two teeth with a well-placed punch, or even better: he could take the towel and wrap it around that long, expressive neck and pull it tight until he had Sam— "Here's the breakfast you've been whinging about for the last hour," he said, thrusting a paper-wrapped sandwich at Sam's face.  
  
Sam leaned back but took the sandwich. "Thank you, Molly," Sam said, retreating to his sofa. "It's nice to see you again."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, very nice. But Molly has lots of work to do, so she'll be off now," he said, pushing Molly back towards the door by the small of her back and grabbing her purse off the table with his other hand.  
  
He gave it to her once he had her safely across the threshold. "John left a message, said he'd be down with supper around half six."  
  
"Very good," Sherlock said, trying to shut the door.  
  
The toe of Molly's shoe was in the way. "How long is this going to go on, Sherlock? It's not like anyone but me pokes around down here, but..."  
  
Sherlock regarded her plainly. "When I have an answer, I'll give you one. Until then, bacon sandwiches tomorrow, if you could? Ta." He nudged her foot out of the way with his own and shoved the door closed. He held it shut for several long moments, leaning his forehead against the metal until he heard the deadbolts slide into place.  
  
When Sherlock turned around, Sam, not being a complete fool, said nothing.  
  
They communicated mostly by hand gestures for the rest of the day. Sam watched slightly less obnoxious television and performed four hundred sit-ups in three different poses; Sherlock smoked half the pack of cigarettes. When John asked him how the day went, Sherlock said, "Uneventful."  
  
John frowned. Had Sherlock really become that transparent? "Your idea about a book wasn't a bad one," Sherlock added quickly. "What did you bring?"  
  
"Westlake," said John, beginning to look cross.  
  
"Somehow he manages to write criminals more inept than the real ones," said Sherlock. "But at least you won't get too involved. You'll need to keep at least one eye on Sam the whole time."  
  
"Did he sleep?"  
  
"Not a wink," said Sherlock.  
  
"It's been at least seventy-two hours, and that's only counting what _we've_ seen."  
  
Sherlock scoffed. "The record's eleven days. No need to be so excitable yet."  
  
John sighed. "You smell of smoke."  
  
"Do I?" Sherlock said. "I really ought to have a wash, then."  
  
"Sherlock, why do you smell of smoke?" John's head turned. "Did Sam—?"  
  
"Of course he did."  
  
John scrubbed at his face. "Hand them over."  
  
"I gave them back," said Sherlock, shrugging. "You'll have to nick them off of him." He patted John on the shoulder. "I have full faith in your abilities."  
  
John shook his head. "Sherlock, honestly..."  
  
Sherlock stood his ground. "Honestly what?"  
  
"Never mind." John opened the door and took a step back. "I'll see you in the morning."  
  
Sherlock exited and locked the deadbolts behind him. Then he turned and left the hospital. Once he had adequate reception again, he sent Dean a text: "Whatever you're doing, do a better job of it. SH"  
  
He didn't receive an answer.  
  
~*~  
  
When Sherlock re-opened the door the next morning, John looked even more disturbed than he had after his previous shift. "Morning," he said, rising stiffly from the chair, paperback and pistol in hand. The wobble in John's step reminded Sherlock entirely too much of the old psychosomatic limp he'd carried home from Afghanistan.  
  
"Hello," chimed Sam from the sofa, and Sherlock saw John tense at the word, finger pulling off the trigger guard before he recovered and gave Sherlock a concerned look. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and caught Sam's gaze over John's shoulder; Sam shook his head and gave Sherlock that irritating Winchester full-body shrug.  
  
Sherlock looked away first and tossed his satchel onto the table. "There's bacon sandwiches in there; one of them is _mine_ ," he said, then turned around and walked back out the door. As soon as John had the door shut, Sherlock asked, "What the hell did he do to you?"  
  
"Nothing." John sighed. "That was the first word I've heard out of him since you left, so I was a bit surprised, that's all. Sam gave me the silent treatment all night, which was a something of a relief. Still didn't sleep; he just watched a _Top Gear_ marathon on Dave. I think he might have been doing pilates for a while there." John sounded bewildered, which was no doubt Sam's goal. "Any word from Dean?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.  
  
“Not a one.”  
  
After fifteen minutes of stonewalling John's increasingly suspicious questions, Sherlock finally convinced him to go home. Once John shut the door, Sherlock unbuttoned his coat and draped it over the back of his chair.  
  
Sam was sitting at the table now; he'd already finished his breakfast and was leafing through one of Sherlock's books. "You're wearing your scarf again," Sam said without looking up.  
  
Sherlock loosened it and sat down. "I always wear this scarf," he said, reaching for his sandwich. It had cooled and congealed on the trip over and no longer smelled nearly as tempting. Sherlock took a bite anyway.  
  
Sam looked up and arched his eyebrows. "You also brought breakfast yourself; I take it we're not going to see Molly until lunchtime?"  
  
Sherlock finished chewing and swallowed. "You make her uncomfortable," he said, opening his thermos to pour out some tea.  
  
"Because you're always concerned about making people uncomfortable."  
  
Sherlock took a sip of tea. "Molly's useful; I can't have you frightening her off. Unless you really want us to move you to 221 C. I have to warn you, the ceiling down there's rather low, so you'll have stoop to keep from knocking your head into it."  
  
Sam raised his palms in mock surrender. "You have my word, Molly has nothing to fear from me." He returned to flipping through the book; Sherlock finished his breakfast. After a while Sam said, "So you haven't heard anything from my brother?"  
  
It wasn't worth trying to lie. "No."  
  
Sam shut the book and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms together. "Are you really expecting to learn traditional Chinese before he gets back, or are we going to get on with this?"  
  
In answer, Sherlock retrieved his books and put them back in his satchel, then picked up the bag and set it on the ground by his chair. Sam didn't move. Sherlock pulled his scarf all the way off and laid it on the table. Across the table, Sam's head tilted to the left. Sherlock kept his face blank and shrugged off his jacket, then unbuttoned his cuffs. He paused, with the sudden sense of standing on a ledge.  
  
Sherlock knew how _not_ to partake in the messy, demeaning, irrational sexual activities that obsessed so much of humanity. John always questioned his understanding of humanity in general, but so far as Sherlock was concerned, humans only had two urges: the first was 'make that happen again' —feel safe again, be young again, taste that again. The other was 'I'm bored: what does this do?' Because making things happen again and again was all well and good, but there was always a vague dissatisfaction, a sense that things could be even better, if only I tried this one different thing—even if it also carried the strong possibility of killing you. People kept trying new things all the same, and Sherlock was guiltier than most.  
  
Mycroft and John and even Sam all had a point: he'd only ever understand that obsession if he...experimented...himself. And who better to test his reactions with than this version of Sam, who had about as much emotional attachment and ability to judge as a mass spectrometer?  
  
"You could just come back tomorrow with a deck of cards," said Sam. "I'll teach you how to lose at strip poker and it would still be faster."  
  
Sherlock had started tossing and catching his mobile at some point without noticing. He stopped and tucked it safely in his jacket pocket, then cleared his throat. "Your assistance would speed matters considerably."  
  
"Is that an invitation?"  
  
Dean could call at any moment, Sam's soul in tow; John might come bursting in; there were any number of ways that Sam would try to betray him. Sherlock squared his shoulders and looked Sam in the eye. "Yes."  
  
Sam’s answering smirk almost made Sherlock reconsider immediately, but by then Sam had already shucked his shirt onto the table and pulled Sherlock to his feet as easily as a child.  
  
Sam wasted little time. Within seconds, Sherlock's shirt was sliding down his arms, Sam’s hands already dropping to Sherlock’s belt and yanking it free of the buckle before moving on to the trousers. Sherlock focused on Sam's businesslike efficiency and the elegant economy of his movements—keeping a critical eye on Sam helped him to ignore the awkward intimacy of the moment. Sherlock’s trousers slid to the floor and Sherlock took the opportunity to step back and put some much-needed breathing room between them. He covered his momentary weakness with the necessary act of toeing off his shoes and lifting his feet out of the puddled fabric.  
  
It wasn't that Sherlock found nudity to be particularly shameful— he'd adopted his suit as a _de facto_ uniform only because people (Mummy, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson) tended to have negative opinions about him going around in a bedsheet. So he was blindsided by his own reluctance to disrobe in anticipation of sex. It was the novelty that made him so hesitant, he was fairly certain of that now.  
  
It still came as a shock when Sam’s fingers delved into Sherlock’s boxers, his palms flattening against Sherlock’s bare skin and heading straight to the heart of the matter, no detours, no hesitation, no warnings—just Sam wrapping his hand familiarly around Sherlock. His breath caught.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam muttered and dropped his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, nuzzling under his jaw. And...sniffing. Like a dog.  
  
Sherlock hadn't noticed the chill in the room until he felt the contrast with every point of contact between his skin and Sam’s; that's why he shivered, not because he could feel Sam's erection pressing against his stomach—that merely felt tawdry. But the sensations of Sam’s arms caging Sherlock in, of his hand slipping around to the back of Sherlock’s neck— those felt horribly vulnerable. All it would take would be a quick flick of the wrist and Sam’s big hands could break him. Surrounded by Sam, Sherlock had a sudden appreciation of his own mortality.  
  
Sam’s tongue curved around his ear and flicked at his neck, sending tiny shocks down Sherlock’s spine, and—that was quite enough. Sherlock shoved Sam backward, sternly trying to control his own breath.  
  
Sam seemed to share Sherlock's nonchalance towards nudity; he used the break to drop his jeans with casual indifference. The absence of underwear didn’t really surprise Sherlock, though what Sam revealed was...slightly more than he had bargained for. He coughed. “I believe you mentioned something about my scarf.”  
  
Sam gave Sherlock a skeptical, knowing look. "This will get more difficult once my hands are tied," he said.  
  
“Those are the terms,” Sherlock threw back. “Or would you prefer Dr. Quinn?” Sherlock was willing to watch an entire season in the nude if he must—never let it be said he backed down when his bluff was called—but given the chill and the inevitable furtive glances, he'd rather avoid it.  
  
Sam’s hands flexed, and Sherlock calculated how best to avoid a sudden lunge—but then Sam visibly relaxed, throwing in a dimpled smile for good measure. "Lock me up, detective," he said, holding his hands out in front of himself.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Behind your back, if you please.” Sam had forgotten to shift his shoulders when he smiled; his posture was still very nearly predatory. This was no token ornamental bondage: this was Sherlock's primary line of defense.  
  
“If you insist.” Sam moved his arms behind him and swayed a little on his feet, impatient, as Sherlock grabbed the scarf and began twisting it around his wrists. Sam’s erection swayed with him. Sherlock edged around until Sam's back blocked the view. _That_ was about to be...  
  
Sherlock tied the bindings as tight as he could until he felt confident that, at the very least, the effort required to escape the bonds would give him adequate warning before Sam could fully extract himself. He pulled one last time on the scarf and watched as Sam’s arms bulged, testing out his new restraints. They held to Sherlock's standards. “Now then,” Sherlock said, stepping back around in front of Sam.  
  
Sam smiled, licking his lips. Even with his arms tied behind his back, Sam was intimidating— too tall, too broad, too intense. Discomfiting. Sam stepped closer, pushing one leg between Sherlock's thighs, and suddenly Sherlock found himself shuddering and leaning into the pressure. He grunted and pushed Sam back with two hands on his chest. Sam looked entirely too pleased with himself.  
  
“This won’t work if you push away every time you _feel_ something,” Sam said. “You’re running this show, right?” He ran his eyes back down Sherlock’s body in a definite leer and paused at Sherlock’s crotch, a corner of his mouth lifting. “So how do you want me?”  
  
“In silence, if you can manage it,” Sherlock snapped.  
  
How to do this with the smallest chance of romantic misinterpretation? He turned toward the table, trying to get a feel for it. Sam moved behind him, rubbing himself against Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock shivered when Sam’s cock slid through the lubricant he had spent nearly twenty minutes applying before he arrived.  
  
He swatted Sam away, a compromise between the stoicism he wished for and the ridiculous skittishness his hind brain recommended. “I brought supplies,” he announced, dropping the façade that he hadn't been intending this all along. To back out now would be—insufferably undignified.  
  
And yet nothing about this encounter was going as smoothly as he would have wished. Sex was messy at the best of times, always too complicated and involved, and he’d known that going in—but his body’s reactions were unnerving nonetheless. Sherlock drew a single foil packet out of his pocket, leaving the others concealed, and ripped it open.  
  
Sam smiled and dropped his eyes to his own erection, rolling his hips forward. Clinically, Sherlock took stock of the situation. Sam’s hands were tied behind his back—a necessary limitation. His... cock... was hard and ready. Sherlock rolled the condom over Sam's erection as quickly as he could, hoping that he’d at least gotten the blasted thing on correctly. In the grand scheme of things, there could be worse catastrophes than a wrongly applied condom, but if he couldn’t handle a bit of latex, he had no business even trying for more.  
  
“I wondered if you’d go so far on your first try,” Sam said, raising one eyebrow. Beneath the leer was acknowledgement of a worthy opponent.  
  
“Do stop talking,” said Sherlock. He took a quick breath and went to brace himself against the table.  
  
Sam crowded up behind him again, dragging his shaft over the crack of Sherlock’s arse. “Before you lean over and start thinking of England, I'm gonna need a hand with one more thing,” Sam said, darkly amused.  
  
One last indignity he'd been trying not to think about all morning. Sherlock didn't look; he simply reached behind himself and grabbed Sam’s latex-covered erection, spreading his legs a little wider as he lined Sam up. He took one deep breath, trying his hardest to relax, but there was no getting around the fact that he was holding Sam’s penis and about to push it into himself. No sense in wasting time now.  
  
At the first blunt shove, Sherlock’s eyes went wide. He’d seen the size of it, but this new perspective made him revise his estimates upward; the visuals had not prepared him for the sensation. Interesting. Sherlock dropped his head as Sam slipped in a little more.  
  
“Lubed already?” Sam said. He gave an experimental thrust.  
  
"Your observational skills are unparalleled," Sherlock groaned, sinking onto one elbow. So this is what people meant when they said they felt well and truly buggered.  
  
“You sneaky fucker,” Sam said, rocking his hips forward. Sherlock grunted as Sam sank in all the way. “How much did you plan?” Sam paused, draping himself flush against Sherlock from shoulder to thigh. “How much time did you spend?”  
  
Bloody hell. At this rate, they might as well just put their clothes back on and pretend that none of this had ever happened. Sherlock could officially write sex off as preposterously overrated, having assuaged his latent curiosity, and Sam could go back to doing whatever else it was that Sam did with his copious free time—more push-ups, perhaps. Sherlock was not impressed at all.  
  
Sam rolled his hips, grinding against Sherlock. “Come on. Tell me." He hooked his chin over Sherlock's shoulder and whispered into his ear. "How prepared were you when you walked in here? Did you have your fingers in your ass? Did you _research_?”  
  
“Of course I did,” Sherlock growled, fighting back a reluctant blush. Research and due preparation were never things to be ashamed of. “I’m not an idiot. My research just failed to prepare me for how much time you were planning to waste blabbering at me.”  
  
Sam chuckled. “Pretty mouthy for a guy getting fucked.”  
  
That was the correct terminology for this, wasn’t it? Fucked. Delightfully crude and utterly true. “If I were being fucked, at least one of us would be pushing.” The metal edge dug into his thighs and where the table wasn’t dreadfully cold, he was starting to stick. Fantastic. He could certainly understand why people dedicated their lives to the pursuit of this. Sherlock shoved back against Sam. “I'm given to understand there's more to this sex lark than the initial ‘insert tab A into slot B’ step, but so far your efforts have been rather underwhelming.”  
  
Sam finally shut up and rocked backward, his erection sliding out of Sherlock and, oh, that was utterly _bizarre_. Sherlock felt as if maybe he should be having a private moment in the loo, instead of standing out in the open, bent over a table with another man behind him, studying his every move. It wasn’t any less strange when Sam pushed back _in_ —the same odd feeling in reverse. Sherlock could feel every centimeter scraping inside; he caught himself inching forward in an unconscious attempt to escape. There was a burn, a drag against his muscles, and while that caused a bit of confusion on the part of Sherlock’s nervous system, it wasn’t what he would call pleasant. Also, if the goal of anal sex was to stimulate the prostate gland, Sam needed a critical anatomy lesson. “I can only hope for the sake of your other partners that you're having an off day.”  
  
“Oh?” Sam replied, starting his tortuous slide back out. _God._  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, following Sam’s hips in order to delay the inevitable. It was possible that Sam, despite his self-assurance and blatant propositions, was horrid at sex. However, there was a much more likely explanation: the bastard was toying with him. "I'm thinking it's time to cut my losses and have a quick wank in the shower.” Or not, considering that he'd gone completely flaccid from the pain, and at this point might not ever be aroused again.  
  
Sam laughed, and whispered in his ear. “Maybe you should start thinking about England now.”  
  
He slammed forward, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room, and angled downward on his next stroke. Sherlock’s mouth dropped open and his eyes fluttered closed as a shock of pleasure raced up his spine. Sam repeated the motion and Sherlock gasped, his head sinking to rest against the table as Sam found a steady rhythm. That had been somewhat more worth the experience. “Too much?” Sam mocked.  
  
Sherlock dug his fingers into the table, fighting for control among the new sensations—he’d possibly underrated this, but he was still reserving judgement—and tried to find his tongue. It took a beat longer than he would have liked. “I suppose if this is your best...ah.”  
  
“I’d give you a hand,” Sam said, “but you know what? I don’t think you’ll need it.”  
  
Sherlock ignored him. He wasn’t about to untie Sam, not even to speed things up. When Sherlock reached down to adjust himself, he was surprised to note that his interest had apparently returned. He groaned as he fondled himself, unable to resist the urge to indulge— what better time to indulge would he ever have? Each thrust of Sam’s shoved him forward, and Sherlock braced himself with one arm, burying his face in his elbow to better concentrate on the shivery little sensations rippling through his body.  
  
Sherlock had assumed that all the romantic rhapsodies on the joys of sex were just that, but he had to admit that the additional stimuli of having a partner did improve the experience. Messier to be sure, requiring more coordination and solid communication on the behalf of both parties to orchestrate, but ultimately more satisfying on the most basic levels. Perhaps it depended on the inherent unpredictability of another person’s actions. Of course, Sherlock was able to calculate and foresee Sam’s movements— rhythmic thrusting didn’t take much effort to deduce—but sex nonetheless required a certain loss of control.  
  
Enjoyable in ways, perhaps—surprise, anticipation, not having to constantly come up with new input on one’s own—but Sherlock wasn’t sure if he _liked_ it. Surrendering didn't come naturally to him, regardless of the ultimate result. Sam’s hands being tied behind his back weren't just a matter of practicality, it was a matter of necessity. Even if Sam wasn't a known killer, Sherlock couldn't imagine trusting anyone like that.  
  
Large hands gripped Sherlock’s hips, fingers wrapping around the bone and digging into the skin, and Sherlock had one horrified moment as this absolute impossibility brought his entire thought process to a screeching halt.  
  
And then it rebooted.  
  
No, not impossible: merely improbable. Sam hadn’t had time to loop his arms under his legs, not to mention the pain he would have been in from dislocating his shoulders to do so. What did that leave? _What did that leave?_  
  
Either Sam had wiggled out of his restraints entirely using some arcane method of escapology beyond even Sherlock's experience—he'd carefully ensured that the knots had been outside of the reach of Sam’s big hands—or there was another person in the room. Unlikely, but without looking Sherlock couldn’t be certain. It had been a mistake to put his back to Sam—a silly, stupid mistake. His overconfidence meant things might be about to end very badly for him.  
  
Sherlock pushed up against the table, hoping that the suddenness of his movements would catch Sam off-guard, and swung his head to the side. The large hand on his ribcage traveled up to thick forearms to what was unmistakably Sam’s shoulder. A surge of adrenaline raced through Sherlock: this had become even more out of his control than before. Unacceptable.  
  
One of the hands left Sherlock’s hip and slammed his face flat to the table. Sherlock groaned against the formica, his lips distorted, and thrashed against the bulk holding him down. “Don’t go anywhere,” Sam said lightly, incongruent with the hard grip he moved to Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock choked, gasping for air, and for a brief moment he thought that this might really be it for him—and, oh, wouldn’t John be surprised—but then Sam’s hand shifted again, pulling his head back by the hair to bite along his jawline over the finger-shaped bruising.  
  
Sam wasn’t gentle, didn’t care, and did anything he damn well pleased. He bit down hard, not quite breaking the skin of Sherlock’s neck, and worked his way down to the shoulder. Sherlock hissed at the pain even as wires crossed in his body, misinterpreting the sensation as part of his arousal. Behind him, Sam sped up, abandoning his earlier patient rhythm, dropping the mask of casual concern—now Sam simply rutted into him, heading towards orgasm with a single-mindedness that Sherlock had once found fascinating but now revealed itself as brutally simple. Sherlock was only here for the ride.  
  
Sam pushed Sherlock back down onto the table; the hard edge dug painfully into Sherlock’s thighs and groin until he managed to find his feet, gaining enough leverage to shelter at least his more sensitive parts on the flat surface. Above him, Sam was rasping, growling, panting— _feral._ He left a trail of marks wherever he went, moving across Sherlock’s throat, over his shoulder, at the top of his back, and back up to bite at his ear. “This—” Sherlock cut himself off with a gasp as Sam tugged at his hair— “was not part of our agreement.”  
  
“Said I'd let you tie me up, didn't say how long I'd stay that way,” Sam said, shoving in again, and Sherlock writhed as Sam scraped over his prostate. “You are so fucking _tight_ ," Sam growled, his hips a jackhammer against Sherlock. He left Sherlock gasping on the table and sat up, his hands encircling Sherlock’s hips again as he slammed in even harder. “Waste of a great ass.” A hand came down hard on Sherlock’s arse, the slap echoing through the room as the pain reverberated up Sherlock’s spine. Sam repeated the motion, sending Sherlock arching upwards. “Oh, fuck, yeah, that’s it,” Sam told him, a sick kind of praise.  
  
“Get off me,” Sherlock demanded, trying to get his arms back underneath him.  
  
Sam slammed him back against the table. “Stay _down_.” Sam kept pumping into Sherlock, hard and fast, while Sherlock grit his teeth and flattened his hands on the table, trying to find something to hold onto.  
  
Then Sam said, “On second thought...” Sherlock’s sweat-slicked palms squeaked against the table as he was dragged backwards. The world spun.  
  
Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, piecing together what had happened until Sam invaded his line of vision, all broad shoulders and long hair. They had a brief moment, a respite, and then Sam plunged back inside of Sherlock in one long stab and Sherlock’s vision grayed around the edges. “Oh, _God_...” he hissed, curling his legs upward as Sam resumed his brutal rhythm.  
  
On his back, Sherlock felt vulnerable—his belly bared, no traction to speak of—but at least his hands were free. He shoved at Sam, trying to push the larger man off of him, get some distance between them, but Sam snagged his wrists and pinned him as easily as a child, banging them against the table for effect. His teeth were bared but it wasn’t a smile. “Betting on one scrap of fabric to keep you safe— I expected better from you.”  
  
With his hands pinned, Sherlock was defenseless, a fact Sam took full advantage of, lowering his head to lick up the side of Sherlock’s bruised neck. He made his way to Sherlock’s lips, teasing at the corner, and Sherlock turned his head away, pressing his cheek to the table. No matter how Sherlock tugged, there was nowhere he could go; Sam had the height, the reach, the weight to make Sherlock pathetically small in comparison. He arched against it, his back leaving the table with the effort, and received nothing but a mocking laugh.  
  
Sam kissed him hard, his mouth brutal against Sherlock’s, and when Sherlock bashed him in the side with a knee, Sam’s teeth sank into Sherlock’s bottom lip and pulled. Sherlock jerked his head away, resorting again to his words. “Of course I saw it coming!” he snapped, because he’d known that there had been the possibility of this happening—remote but there.  
  
“No, you didn’t,” Sam said. He thrust in deep and rolled his hips, tongue flicking out to taste the skin of Sherlock’s neck. “But don’t worry, I’m not planning on killing you. This is fun.” He pounded in hard and fast three times and then went back to grinding, biting along Sherlock’s collarbone. Sensing a momentary weakness, Sherlock jerked his hands free. He tried to follow up the small victory but Sam was too quick—more focused than Sherlock would have thought—and Sherlock was pinned again in seconds, this time both wrists over his head and, insultingly enough, held down with only one of Sam’s hands. Sam grinned, wild and excited. “Much more fun when you fight back. Dead bodies are boring.”  
  
Sherlock paused, Sam’s comment sinking in while Sam ran his tongue over Sherlock’s body. He was slobbering everywhere, the spit sliding over Sherlock’s skin, and there were over 600 species of bacteria in human saliva. Epstein-Barr and cytomegalovirus. Streptococcus. On all sorts of levels, this was utterly disgusting. Or at least it should have been.  
  
Sam’s teeth scraped over a nipple and Sherlock choked on a shout, strangling it in his throat at the sudden pain. It lapsed into a distressingly weak whimper when Sam’s hand cupped his erection, hard and almost eager in Sam’s grip, leaping to attention as Sam gave it a few firm strokes. A wave of arousal added to the already heady mix of pain and pleasure muddled through Sherlock’s nerves, nearly overloading him.  
  
He couldn’t _think_ anymore. Each thought was interrupted by a sensation, a spark of pleasure or pain that made his mind blank, no time to think beyond ‘oh, that feels good’ or ‘Christ, watch the teeth’ or ‘I suppose I’ll live after all.’ Sam wasn’t going to kill Sherlock—not because he’d said he wouldn’t, but because Sherlock was far too useful as a bargaining chip, a way of keeping the situation from escalating. As...entertainment.  
  
The world devolved into sharp nips and long licks and the feeling of Sam on top of him, inside of him. Sherlock let himself go limp against the table, the fight draining out of him, and Sam gave a little pleased growl in the back of his throat. His body was nothing more than a marionette, dependent on Sam to pull his strings. When Sam released his hands, Sherlock didn’t move them—not until Sam growled at him to hold on.  
  
“The force of your pelvis is hardly enough that I need to—” Sherlock began, but then Sam’s big hands shoved underneath Sherlock’s back, rough against Sherlock’s skin, flipped him upright and dragged him to the edge of the table.  
  
“Legs,” Sam said, the only warning Sherlock got before he was hovering in mid-air, supported only by Sam’s arms and his own limbs wrapped around Sam’s body. Snapped out of his daze, he hurriedly locked his legs around Sam’s waist.  
  
Sam spun them around and dropped onto the sofa, settling Sherlock intimately into Sam’s lap, legs on either side of Sam’s hips. A loose spring poked at Sherlock’s knee and Sherlock shifted away from it. Sam’s arms tightened around Sherlock, promising that Sherlock would have a fight on his hands if he tried to leave. A wet tongue flicked against Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock let it in. Sam took the inch and went a mile, his tongue inspecting all corners of Sherlock’s mouth before prodding Sherlock's into a fluttered response.  
  
Sam’s grip loosened, his hands dropping to Sherlock’s hips, encouraging him to move, to lift him up. To _fuck_ himself, an active participant. “Come on, Sherlock,” Sam said, tugging him upward, “That brain’s gotta be good for something.”  
  
Sherlock experimentally pushed up on his knees and then relaxed; Sam sort of swiveled his hips at the same time and that was — "Now you've got it," said Sam, chuckling. "Not hopeless after all."  
  
He wasn’t _choosing_ to do this, on top but nowhere near in control, his every move still dependent on Sam. The realization hit Sherlock like a punch to the gut, heady and frightening at the same time. He moaned, the rhythm of his hips speeding up, and his erection slid over Sam’s chest, leaving a trail of wetness. Sam reached for it, his fingers teasing along the underside before wrapping it in a firm grip. Sherlock closed his eyes. This was how people got addicted to sex, this was why—Sam was raw power underneath him, around him, in him, and Sherlock couldn’t resist, not when giving in to Sam meant getting exactly what his body insisted it needed in return.  
  
The hot flush of orgasm caught him by surprise. Pleasure rocketing through his nerves, leaving them tingling in the wake, carrying him out to sea like the tide, and for a moment, all thinking stopped. He panted into Sam’s hair, unable to catch his breath, feeling his body shudder uncontrollably, helpless to do much more than wait it out.  
  
In his ear, Sam was growling filth about how hot it was, how easy his tight virgin ass gave it up, how he liked having Sherlock’s come on him. Sherlock weakly trailed a hand down over Sam’s stomach. He could feel the sticky smears of semen mixing with the slippery slickness of Sam’s sweat, some of it already forming dry crusts in their body hair. Messy. Someone should clean it up.  
  
His head was spinning, unable to focus on any one thought, his body reduced to a trembling mass of nerves. Sam picked him up and rearranged him, one arm draping down off of the couch with his head pillowed on the arm rest. Sherlock tried to settle in a position where that one spring wasn't poking directly at his coccyx, but Sam undid all of his efforts by tossing one of Sherlock’s legs up over the back of the couch and bending the other to Sherlock’s chest, using it as leverage as he shoved in. Sherlock closed his eyes, mouth open, and gave himself over to the feeling of Sam using him.  
  
“Fuck, you're tight,” Sam rasped, moving hard and fast. Sherlock clenched reflexively. “God, yeah, just like that.” Sam sucked in a harsh breath, his hands squeezing Sherlock’s wrists, and then slammed in hard enough that Sherlock almost fell off the couch.  
  
“You could at least say something original—ow.” Sherlock choked back more protests, glaring up at Sam. What had Sherlock been _thinking_ , letting himself get involved with this? Was this what it meant to think with the wrong head?  
  
“Never keep your mouth shut for long,” Sam groaned, pounding hard, the strokes no longer as smooth as before. “Next time I’ll put it to better use.” Suddenly he pulled out entirely, leaving Sherlock confused and empty. Sam stripped off the condom and took himself in one hand, the other pressing Sherlock down into the couch. Sam's face contorted, mouth dropping open in a wide 'o' and Sherlock stared. Had he made that sort of face? It was utterly ridiculous. A photograph at the moment would be blackmail for years. Yet Sherlock found it strangely satisfying, to know that he had caused that... And then Sam's bare dick spattered semen all over Sherlock’s chest.  
  
“Are you _bloody_ joking,” said Sherlock.  
  
Sam jerked a few more times, then sighed with contentment, his entire body going lax. “Mmm...” Sam hummed, finally freeing Sherlock. He rubbed his hands over Sherlock’s chest, petting him indulgently, and Sherlock shoved him away with a huff of indignation. As a reward for opening his mouth, he got a taste of Sam's depravity clinging to his bottom lip.  
  
“Far be it for me to ruin the afterglow,” Sherlock said, spitting onto the floor, “but you can get off me, now.” He squirmed until he was on his elbows, moving out from under Sam, already annotating the experience in his head. Sex, he concluded, was sticky, humiliating, ridiculous, and sometimes wildly uncomfortable. It was much better in the process of orgasm than after the fact. When all the endorphins and the haze of arousal left, all one had were the messy leavings. Sherlock frowned in distaste at the feeling of lube leaking out of him, not to mention the come covering his body from neck to groin. The couch wouldn't even be fit for OxFam after this.  
  
To sum up: somewhat enjoyable, but not so much so that Sherlock could understand the world's obsession with it. He could get the same effects from simply consuming some exceptionally good chocolate—it would be easier and less potentially harmful. Even if chocolate didn’t leave his nerves still tingling after it was gone.  
  
Sam caught his arm. “Where are you going?”  
  
Sherlock tugged himself free and rolled off the couch. “We’re finished,” he said. He was in desperate need of a shower. Running the battery of STD screenings on himself without catching Molly's attention would take some planning — it wasn't like this experience had promoted any sort of trust in Sam.  
  
Sam wrapped himself around Sherlock from behind. “That was just round one.”  
  
“Round _one_?” Sherlock huffed. “We both achieved orgasm, and as such we have _clearly_ finished.” He squirmed. “Unless you’d like to be caught in such an obviously compromising position, I suggest you let me get dressed.”  
  
“And who exactly do you think will catch us?” Sam ground himself against Sherlock’s arse again, his mouth in Sherlock’s hair. “I'm not done with you."  
  
Sherlock's stomach growled loudly. "Hear that? I don't know if you noticed, but you spent the better part of the morning shagging me silly, and it's nearly time for lunch. So let go."  
  
“Shagging you silly,” Sam repeated, amused. “More like fucking you stupid.”  
  
"If there exists a person capable of that, it certainly isn’t you,” said Sherlock, calculating the best place to hit Sam so he would release his grip. “And this performance most definitely failed to live up to your claims." He threw his head back, intending to stun Sam with a blow to the head, but Sam kicked Sherlock’s feet out from under him and pinned him to the floor.  
  
Sam laughed in his ear, and Sherlock could go for the rest of his life without hearing that again. "Apparently not, Sherlock." Sherlock heard Sam pull something metallic off of the coffee table. "How long do you think we fucked?"  
  
Sherlock snorted, trying to get stray carpet fibers out of his nose. "Two and a half hours at the least. Probably closer to three. I’d say it’s at least half ten by now."  
  
Sam let the face of his watch dangle in front of Sherlock. "Try half eight."  
  
Sherlock twisted his neck to see the watch more closely. "Oh, as if it's impossible to reset your watch."  
  
Sam let out another chuckle. "Check the windows." He pulled back on Sherlock's hair hard enough to give Sherlock a glimpse of the two windows near the cot. One was still dark and shadowed, the other showed only a thin slice of weak morning sunlight. "I can't fake that. And you can't fake how responsive your body is." Sherlock sputtered as Sam put his face back in the rug. “So fucking easy, Sherlock. I was taking it _slow_ , and you still barely lasted fifteen minutes.”  
  
One of Sherlock’s arms was pinned behind his back, the other pressed against the floor. “All right, my estimates were off. Your sexual experience far outstrips my own. Now let me clean it off myself.”  
  
Sam grunted, and then the pressure eased. "If it makes you feel better."  
  
Sherlock was still in the process of making his limbs ambulatory when Sam's absurd gorilla arms hoisted him up by the waist. "Piss off," Sherlock snarled, slapping and kicking at Sam until the neanderthal gave up trying to carry him around like a toy and let him walk into the bathroom under his own power. Sherlock turned on the water as hot as it would go and stumbled in.  
  
He knew that Sam would be rifling through his things, so he didn't make as thorough a job as he might have liked, but for now it would have to do. "Looking for something?" Sherlock said, as he carefully and deliberately did _not_ stagger out of the bathroom.  
  
"Just this." Sam spun on him, Sherlock’s STI Edge in his hand.  
  
Sherlock gently lay back down on his side. "Oh, that? Very good. Could you bring it over here?"  
  
Sam frowned, weighing the gun in his hand. He pressed the magazine release and nothing happened. "What the hell?"  
  
Sherlock took a minute to enjoy Sam's confusion and smiled. "Give me your best shot, come on then." Sam's eyes narrowed. He pointed the gun at the wall and squeezed the trigger. A small blue flame emerged from the barrel. Sherlock smiled. "You didn't really think I would be foolish enough to bring the real thing with me today, did you?"  
  
When he looked up, Sam had gone red-faced and was breathing even harder than he had while they'd fucked, but a rictus grin was stretching over his face. "Well then. I guess that means we'll just have to do this the hard way." He lurched back towards the bed, his own legs a little wobbly from exertion. "Didn't want to do it like this, but you'll need a couple more bruises before Molly will take me seriously enough."  
  
Sherlock couldn't stop a reflexive flinch, but he could pull off a slight smirk. "Oh, no, this is plenty graphic enough to manipulate Molly, she's a bit of a soft touch.” He shifted again. “On the other hand, there's no way of roughing me up that will get you past John or his fully-loaded SIG Sauer, and as he's going to be the next person to open that door, he's who you really ought to be worried about." As Sam stopped short and processed this, Sherlock rolled his shoulders. "Now, bring the lighter over here and grab the cigarettes while you're at it. Rumor has it they're fantastic after sex, and I have a rather nasty taste in my mouth I'd like to get rid of."  
  
Sam's nostrils flared, but after a moment he grabbed the cigarettes from where he’d hidden them in the rafters and crossed to the cot. When Sherlock took one and held it in his mouth, Sam pointed the gun at him and pulled, looking very much like he wanted the tiny lick of flame to be a bullet. Sherlock lit his cigarette and didn't bother thanking him.  
  
"I don't need a gun to hold you hostage," Sam said matter-of-factly, lighting his own cigarette and sitting down on the cot.  
  
"Maybe.” Sherlock let out a long drag and smiled as the nicotine flooded his system. “But when it comes to people threatening me, John tends to shoot first and ask questions later. If he doesn't crease my ear one of these days I'll likely go deaf from listening to the bullets fly past."  
  
Sam regarded him. "You planned this."  
  
"I did."  
  
"I'm not getting out."  
  
"No, you're not. And if you’d like to minimize the awkward questions, do check how many bruises you gave me, would you?" Sherlock took another long pull. "And don't lie. This is for your own good as much as mine."  
  
Sam looked Sherlock over. "I may have gotten a little... bitey," he said, eying Sherlock's neck and licking his lips.  
  
"I seem to recall that, yes," said Sherlock, ignoring Sam's token efforts to appear remorseful. "Anything my scarf won't cover?"  
  
Sam tilted his head. "Lean forward a bit." Sherlock did so, ignoring the twinge of pain in his back. "The scarf should cover the worst of it," Sam said, only sounding a little disappointed.  
  
Sherlock leaned back again. "Well, let's hope the weather stays chilly until they fade."  
  
"Because heaven forbid your precious John see."  
  
“John Watson is not a man to be underestimated,” Sherlock said coldly, more angry than he would have expected at the smirk on Sam’s face. "With this many bruises, I wouldn't put it past him to shoot you on principle."  
  
Sam raised his eyebrows, unfazed. “Is he that protective of you?”  
  
Honestly, must everyone harp on this? John and Sherlock provided each other with a useful partnership; it was only logical John would want to protect that. “Previous experience would indicate that he lets his emotions get the better of him,” said Sherlock.  
  
This information intrigued Sam, though he was quick to hide it. After a moment he leaned forward. “And what happens to you if my brother finds out what you’ve been doing with Sammy's body while he’s not home?”  
  
Amusing though Dean’s apoplexy would be, Sherlock didn’t intend to find out. “You see why it’s in everyone’s best interests if this remains between us,” he said. "I was well aware of the risk I took in allowing you to temporarily overpower me. You're a depraved bastard, but that's nothing we both didn't already know." If Sherlock had somewhat underestimated Sam's creativity and his own squeamishness, well, Sam didn't need to know that.  
  
After a while, Sam said, “I’m not seeing the argument against round two.”  
  
"Light me another cigarette," Sherlock told him, stubbing out the bare filter of the first. Sam did. After a few puffs Sherlock spoke again. "You should know that the reason John's bringing lunch is because I arranged for Lestrade to take Molly to the firing range today. Next time you see her, assume she's armed. She's got steady hands and does her best work under duress, so there's every reason to believe she'll train up to be an excellent shot."  
  
"Meanwhile I just wait here and rot, until my brother calls?" said Sam, putting out the remainder of his cigarette, still watching him.  
  
“You’re free to do whatever you like, within the confines of this room,” Sherlock replied. “Read a book, take a shower, do some more pull ups. Maybe have a refreshing nap?"  
  
Sam glared at him.. Sherlock waited until Sam was just about to speak and added, "If you're not a complete prat for the rest of the day, I might bring over the riding crop tomorrow.” He took another long drag on the cigarette. There was something undeniably appealing about the thought of raising a few welts on Sam’s skin.  
  
Sam’s eyes traveled up and down the length of him, surprised. “You’d do this again?”  
  
“Again? No. That would be unbearably dull.” Sherlock had already thoroughly evaluated today’s experiment; a reenactment was unnecessary. However, his eyes had been opened to a number of new possibilities to investigate. “You'll have to be far more inventive to hold my interest.”  
  
Sam’s lips quirked. “Is that a challenge?"  
  
"Just a little game." Sherlock took a few more puffs and slowly let the smoke curl out of his mouth. "To pass the time."

 


End file.
